


once upon a time

by wormguts



Series: Tree Rings [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bruce Wayne is a Bad Parent, Character Study, Gen, If you only read one work by me, Introspection, Jason Todd is Robin, M/M, Oneshot, Pre-Relationship, Slow Build, Some fluff if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-12 06:10:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19223215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wormguts/pseuds/wormguts
Summary: “Dickie Bird broke rules too,” Jason points out.Batman sighs like the world rests upon his shoulders. “But you aren’t Dick, are you?”“And that’s the problem, wouldn’t you say?” Jason’s voice is pure acid. He can see it eating through Batman’s thick skin. Soon, none of that skin will be left. It will only be Bruce Wayne again, and Bruce Wayne is all bones.





	once upon a time

**Author's Note:**

> Why is there such a lack of good Jason Todd content on here? I keep looking for it, hoping it's lurking in some dark corner, but it's near-impossible to find??
> 
> I marked this as M/M solely because the next few installments in the series will be, but here it's Gen (Jason is a fourteen here) so no need to worry about that if that's not your thing. This can be read any way you like! Can't say so much for the next few though lol sorry 
> 
> Please let me know what you think! I really really hate how shitty Bruce can be sometimes (especially to Jason) so this kind of explores the moments in which he isn't a massive fuck-up of a dad. A little glimpse into young Jason Todd's life at the manor, and his relationship with Bruce. Enjoy!

+++

Once upon a time, Batman sucks. The end.

 

Jason sighs into his cereal. _If only_ , he thinks wistfully. If that were the end of it, he wouldn’t be grounded right now, and counting the marshmallows in his _Lucky Charms_ wouldn’t be the most riveting part of his evening. So far, he reckons there’s about 37 floating around in there – 38 if you count the one he just swallowed. That’s seven more than last night’s bowl.

 

Jason sighs again. Batman really _sucks_.

 

Alfie seems to agree, though probably not for entirely the same reasons. Bruce and Dick are currently in one of their _moods_. They’re refusing to speak to one another — you know, like the right and proper adults Dick's convinced they are. Dick's nineteen, and at nineteen, living with daddy dearest is embarassing or something. He's moved out. Bruce is dealing with it the only way Jason suspects he knows how: by burying himself in work and cases and everything not-Dick. It isn't sitting well with Alfred, and it's made things a bit awkward, even in a house the size of a football stadium.

 

The old butler is the only person to talk sense into Bruce. Sometimes very forcefully. With one of those _looks_ that could brown butter. Those are the best moments to witness, and another reason why Jason’s at the dining room table with his math homework and _Lucky Charms_. If anyone can set Batman straight, it’s Alfred Pennyworth.

 

“Hey Alf!” he calls over the commotion of the dishwasher. He’d, erm, packed it too full of last night’s dishes, so the spinning water thing on the top keeps hitting into the baked chicken platter and making a horrendous _whump clang whump clang_ that's distracting him from this friggin’ math problem. Not that he was paying much attention anyhow. He doesn’t care how many pies Francie has, nor how many she’s going to _split evenly among her friends_. He doubts Francie _has_ any friends. Any person with 47 pies in their kitchen cupboard belongs in prison.

 

Alfred appears in the doorway with an unimpressed expression. He looks at Jason pointedly as the cacophony of _whump clang whump clang_ continues. “Yes, Master Jason?”

 

Jason smiles sheepishly. “Hey, uh, I thought I could get some help with this problem? I don’t get it.” He means _I don’t give two flying goose turds about it_ , but he has the creeping suspicion Alfred might take offense. He is, after all, a _math whiz,_ according to Dick, though Jason has yet to put that to the test. As far as he’s concerned, anyone who can make it through Algebra II with all ten toes is a genius.

 

“You _thought_ you _could_ get help, or do you _think_ you _need_ it?”

 

“I _meant_ — you know what I mean!” He swats a hand. “My brain’s all wonky from math. Gimme a break.”

 

Alfred relents with a smile. He sets the silverware he was polishing down on the table and weaves around to Jason’s side. He'd shoved the big, heavy math textbook to the middle in favor of the big bowl of cereal. He haphazardly drags it towards him to make it look like he was actually reading it and not drowning in diabetes and lukewarm milk.

 

“Quite the set-up, I see,” Alfred comments dryly, eyeing the cereal reprehensibly. He’s never liked the stuff, even refused to buy it for Jason at one point. But Alfie’s warmed up to him, and sugary cereal is the only way Jason can rebel anymore, so Alfie sneaks the cereal into the kitchen under Bruce’s nose, and Jason eats it when the big man’s out.

 

“I can’t concentrate in the room,” Jason explains matter-of-factly.

 

Alfred’s brow furrows. “Which room?”

 

“The room I sleep in.” He distinctly avoids calling it _his_ room because — well, it isn’t. He’s just borrowing it. Much like he’s borrowing Robin.

 

Alfred doesn’t ever comment on Jason’s oddities. He just smiles, perhaps a bit sadly, and moves on.

 

“Let’s get to reading, then, shall we?” he suggests. So they do.

 

Bruce comes home, finds them hunched over the math textbook arguing with ranging hysteria over how many pies Francie’s friends _really_ need, and wordlessly disappears into the kitchen with the pie Alfred spared for the _egregious_ math problem. It isn't much of a pie anymore. Cut up in every way imaginable, part of the crust is on the floor, and there’s strawberry rhubarb goo stuck to Alfred's cheek. It's a wonder they've faired so well indeed.

 

While the boss man retreats to his ‘quarters’ (it’s so freaking _weird_ that he calls his room his _quarters_. Like what is he, a Victorian-era duchess?), Jason turns to Alfred expectantly.

 

“You promised,” he whispers, and though he knows he sounds younger than his fourteen years, he still pouts up at his old friend. Anything to earn him brownie points.

 

Alfred’s sigh is withering. “That I did. However, I cannot promise if anything shall come of it. I suggest you make yourself scarce; you know how Master Bruce can be.” He then excuses himself from the table.

 

Jason stays where he is. There’s no cereal left in his bowl. The shallow pool of milk stares back at him, the 38 marshmallows now sitting comfortably in his belly. Upstairs, Bruce is changing out of his work clothes, preparing for patrol after dinner. Jason won’t be joining him.

 

Bruce had called him _insufferably naïve and brash_ two days ago. He’d grounded him from patrol and warned him that the punishments would only worsen as — they both know there is no _if_ — he continues to disobey. But see, Jason wasn’t really _disobeying_. He just wanted to help — help the only way he knows how: _his_ way.

 

But he’s never seemed to fit right. Batman and Nightwing cast long, creeping shadows behind them that Jason can't seem to escape. They tell him, _fall in line, Robin,_ but Jason stumbles not to clip their heels. They tell him, _keep up, Robin,_ but Jason’s bigger now, he’s grown, he’s _fast_ , he can _do it_ , he can keep up just fine; it’s them that are slow. Jason’s miles ahead of them. It’s Jason that’s calling over his shoulder impatiently. It’s Jason’s shadow creeping behind him that they should be worried about.

 

Unfortunately, Jason will get gray hairs before he ever correctly articulates this to _Batman_. For Batman, Robin is merely damage control. Maybe it didn’t start that way, but that’s where it is now. Jason’s frankly a sorry excuse of partner — and _boy_ does he know it.

 

He’s a disappointment, that’s what he is. He isn’t Robin. He isn’t the heir to Batman’s legacy. He’s just Jason Todd, a scrawny scrap of a kid that never learned to tie his shoelaces properly. He’s an orphaned nobody. He never _really_ fit the role. He’s a temporary fix to a permanent problem, and everyone knows it. He’s filling Robin’s shoes until he outgrows them and the next kid comes along to take the hand-me-downs. Because as Bruce has said so many times before, as long as there’s a Batman, there will always be a Robin.

 

But Jason has big feet; he never fit Robin’s shoes in the first place.

 

Bruce pit-stops at the dinner table Jason’s still sitting at on his way down to the Cave. Jason pretends to be immensely interested in his math textbook to keep the uneasy creepy-crawlies from eating away at his insides. He knows Bruce and Alfred talked. He heard them, even over the _whump clang whump clang_ of the dishwasher. They were yelling. Yelling about Jason. And then they got really quiet. Jason doesn’t know what to make of that.

 

But Bruce stands along the edge of his peripheral like a persistent insect, not saying anything, so Jason is forced to look up eventually. And when he does, he wishes he hadn’t.

 

Bruce Wayne's face is as imperceptible as always, a thin mask of skin hiding his thoughts better than Batman’s cowl ever could. There’s something there, under the nerves and tension. He’s looking at Jason as though it’s the first time.

 

“I talked with Alfred,” Bruce says. He pauses, waits. What he’s waiting for, Jason can’t tell.

 

“Well?” Jason prompts impatiently.

 

“He told me you are... dissatisfied with your current punishment.” _That’s sure putting it lightly, old man,_ Jason thinks in disgust. Bruce’s right eyebrow twitches, which is as much of a grimace anyone’s going to get out of him. So, he’s uncomfortable too. Good.

 

Jason purposely bites his tongue. He’s already screamed at Bruce about this enough to last a lifetime or two. And if Bruce is unwilling to hear him no matter how loud he cries, then he won’t get to speak with him at all.

 

Bruce’s expression betrays nothing, but he continues like Jason had objected. “It’s necessary. Punishment is not without reason; you know that. You were out of line.” _Fall in line, Robin_. “You were...” He purses his lips. Jason hears the _violent, uncontrollable, volatile,_ anyway. Dread sinks low in his gut. God, this is even worse a fourth time around. See, the first time, Bruce was angry. He always is with any disobedience. But as time’s gone on and as the incidents have grown more severe, it’s almost as though Bruce has given up. He’s begun benching Jason to avoid doing anything about his _‘_ _problem child_. _’_ It’s a shitty cop-out, but everyone's too busy grieving Dick Grayson to take notice. Jason doesn’t know what he can do anymore. He isn’t _bad_ — he _can’t_ be; he’s helping people. He’s the _good_ guy.

 

And good guys apologize. Even when they don’t mean it.

 

“I’m sorry,” Jason mumbles. And really, he _is_ sorry. Just not for beating that piece of shit within an inch of his life. Mostly he’s sorry for disappointing Bruce.

 

Bruce’s brow smooths out. He steps closer to the table with two hesitant steps and then sticks to the carpet like a fly on flypaper. Almost like he’s... like he’s _nervous_.

 

And then a thought occurs to Jason: he’s never apologized to Bruce before. Not when he accidentally broke a third of the Wayne family china set. Not when he nearly killed the head of that human trafficking ring two days ago. He was working so hard to be heard over Batman’s overwhelming silence that Bruce Wayne never got an apology. And Bruce is the only one who deserves an apology because Bruce is the only person in the world who gives three shits about Jason.

 

Suddenly there’s a lump in Jason’s throat. He violently turns away so Bruce won’t see him wipe at his eyes. Jesus fuck, is he really going to cry _now?_ What is he, five years old? Embarrassing. God, this is _so_. _EMBARRASSING_. He wants to scream and shout and punch Bruce square in the jaw for making him _feel_ things. How disgusting.

 

“Jason—” Bruce tries, but the words die on his tongue. Bruce has never been good at them. He’s better with his hands.

 

Jason stiffens when he feels a hand gravitate towards his shoulder. It only makes him wants to cry more. He shakes under the weight of it. Bruce Wayne is insufferable. _Brash_. _Naïve_. Did he think this would make Jason feel better? What is he hoping to accomplish?

 

“Jason,” Bruce starts again, voice insistent, and Jason clams up. Here’s the part where he flays Jason for his _brash, insufferable, naïve_ behavior.

 

Only — it never comes.

 

His voice is soft and rumbly in his chest as he continues. “I’m not angry, Jay.” He pauses, probably for emphasis, but Jason could kick him because there’s a but, there’s _always_ a but — “but I am disappointed.” 

 

Ah.

 

“I get it, though. You — I know how... _difficult_ it may be to restrain yourself at times, especially when there are cases like... _those_. I know, Jay— You—”

 

 _“Jesus,_ old man, this is hard to listen to!” Jason snaps, whipping around to scowl. “I’m not a little _kid_ ; I don’t need to be _comforted_ and _coddled_. Just say I’m an angsty teen like you always do and leave me alone.” If he crosses his arms over his chest just like an angsty teen, well.

 

“That’s not what I’m here for, Jason. I’m trying to — I’m trying to _help you_ so you don’t end up like the guys we lock away.”

 

“That’s real great, B. Thanks for letting me know where I’m headed.”

 

_“Jason—”_

 

He’s heard enough. He shoves Bruce’s hand away and stands up, facing him with a growl. “No, look here. I apologized, alright? I’m sorry for upsetting you. But I’m _not_ sorry for what I did. He deserves that and worse, way worse, and we both know it. Just — if you’d _listen_ to me, hear this from my point of view. I can _help_ people by taking these guys down so they never hurt anyone again. I’m doing the world a favor, B. You see that, don’t you? You _have_ to. I _know_ you do.”

 

Bruce is an unmoving wall of stone. “That is not our way.”

 

“But there are _other_ ways! It isn’t just the one. Why do _you_ get to decide? Is it because you’re older? Because you’re stronger than me and can slap some sense into me when I disagree? Is that—”

 

Batman is frighteningly fast when he pushes Jason back into his seat. _“Enough,”_ he snaps, and any fight Jason felt stirring to life seeps from his bones and puddles around his feet. He still isn’t quite used to that voice. That voice can make criminals crap their pants; and here Jason is, a wimpy 14-year-old. What can he possibly do to best _Batman?_ What’s he good at besides taking a punch?

 

A long moment passes in silence. Jason listens to the _whump clang whump clang_ and thinks about how much he’d rather be that dishwasher blade. Or even the chicken platter, for all he cares. Anything would be better than sitting here with Batman breathing down his neck, studying him, _assessing_ him. As though Jason is someone _worthy_ of assessment. It makes his stomach churn. There is no need for assessment; Jason isn’t a _threat_. Bruce is to Jason, maybe, but not the other way around. Jason does not need to _be_ a threat to Bruce. He’s just Jason.

 

“I don’t understand why you keep benching me,” Jason admits, though he does. He craves Bruce’s admittance like he’s never craved anything before. He _needs_ to hear him say it. Needs Bruce to tell him he’s _disappointing, annoying, a burden_ , like he needs oxygen to breathe. If only Bruce would tell him how he _really_ feels.

 

It isn’t Bruce Wayne standing in front of Jason, though; it’s Batman, and when he opens his mouth, the sound of his voice sends shivers up and down Jason’s spine. “You don’t listen to me,” he rumbles. “You don’t follow orders, you lash out. You’re _unpredictable_. I can’t have a partner that I can’t trust to always have my back. I have very few rules, Jason, yet you seem to break every one of them — twice, for good measure.”

 

Jason doesn’t give one _damn_ about the rules. Why won’t Bruce just _tell_ him?

 

“Dickie Bird broke rules too,” Jason points out.

 

Batman sighs like the world rests upon his shoulders. “But you aren’t Dick, are you?”

 

“And that’s the problem, wouldn’t you say?” Jason’s voice is pure acid. He can see it eating through Batman’s thick skin. Soon, none of that skin will be left. It will only be Bruce Wayne again, and Bruce Wayne is all bones.

 

Jason knows he isn’t Robin. He knows he isn’t half the son Dick is to Bruce, nor will he ever be. But that sure as hell doesn’t stop him from _wanting to be_. He knows he can. If given a chance, he’d blow them out of the water. They’d be so surprised they’d go, _oh Jason, you’ve improved so much! You’re doing so well!_ They’d pat his shoulder with proud faces, and everything would be okay again. Dick and Bruce would stop their stupid fighting, and Jason would have a place in this big, lonely house. They’d tell him they’re proud of him. They’d tell him he’s _good_.

 

* * *

 

Through some change of heart, Bruce allows Jason to accompany him on patrol. Jason doesn't know how to feel about that. He pulls on his Robin uniform with a maturity he hasn't earned, the soles of his feet dragging. He's been given a second, third, fourth, _fifth_ chance, but he can't bring himself to be grateful.

 

Batman is silent. Though, Batman is rarely much else, so that much is to be expected. He's worlds away emotionally, but physically, he stays very close. He even praises Jason when he skillfully evades three of Two Face's henchmen, and Jason's stomach swoops nervously.

 

It isn't until the journey back to the Cave, trapped in the Batmobile, that Bruce Wayne makes another appearance. He takes off the cowl — something he rarely does. Jason can't help but stare.

 

"I'm sorry too, Jaylad," Bruce says, and smiles sadly over at Jason in a way that makes his heart squeeze.

 

Jason swallows. It's too loud. Bruce notices.

 

"For what?" He's near breathless.

 

Bruce sets the Batmobile to autopilot and turns in his seat to face Jason. He places a gauntleted hand atop Jason's head. "For being a terrible father," he mutters like the words taste funny.

 

"You're not my father," Jason says. Bruce looks almost like he's been slapped, so Jason quickly amends, "I had a dad. I don't need another one. You're... you're more important to me than he was. I don't want to associate you with any title Willis had. That's... I don't like it." He shakes his head, temporarily dislodging Bruce's hand. He instead moves it down to rest against the back of Jason's neck.

 

Bruce hums softly. "I understand. I can be whatever you wish me to be, then. A friend, a partner, a guardian, you name it."

 

Jason's lip quirks mischievously. "A wife?"

 

Bruce squeezes Jason's neck and ruffles his hair to a startled "hey!" from the passenger seat. "Maybe everything but that one. Besides, I don't think you want to touch that with a ten-foot pole, considering..." They both cringe remembering Bruce's last girlfriend's seven 'unexplained' near-death experiences.

 

"Maybe," Jason admits. He doesn't know what that's supposed to mean, and neither does Bruce, but neither comment on it. Maybe... maybe.

 

They ride back to the Cave in silence. Jason stares out the window and considers where his life is at. His situation isn't precisely ideal, but he's been in far worse positions before. He chews his lip. The homeless pass by outside the thick, bullet-proof glass of the Batmobile. They're asleep on street corners, behind dumpsters, even in booths at the 24-hour coffee house off Ames. Jason used to be them. He still would be, if not for Bruce Wayne.

 

Bruce Wayne, who is mumbling one of Nygma's riddles to himself in Batman's skin. He hasn't quite figured it out; Jason can tell by the wrinkle between his brows, the downward turn of his moving lips. He can read Bruce like the back of his hand. And Bruce can read him too.

 

Jason smiles.

 

* * *

 

Once upon a time, Batman sucked. Then his son died.

+++

 


End file.
